ROGERIO

“I want this,” he said, pointing to the bottle sitting on the bar table. I glanced at it and arched my eyebrow.

“You need to be more specific. We’re already drinking wine. You want some?” I asked with feigned confusion, and he smiled.

“Don’t be intentionally obtuse, Rogerio. It’s not cute,” he sighed, standing up and walking to the bar to pour more into his glass.

“I’m not trying to be cute. I want you to say the words,” I answered in a stern tone, and we stared at each other for a few seconds before he looked away.

He lifted the bottle and stared at the label. “You...